


Early Days

by EledoneCirrhosa



Series: The Founding of Providence Weyr [2]
Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: 8th Interval, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 04:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20325442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EledoneCirrhosa/pseuds/EledoneCirrhosa
Summary: The weather and supply lines mean that the dragonriders of the newly founded Providence Weyr have to re-think the way they’ve always done things.





	Early Days

2058.10.01, Eighth Interval (a month after the move)  
Providence Weyr

There was another dust storm raging across Providence Crater. 

Weyrwoman Clionie gritted her teeth and wrapped a scarf around her face before venturing out into the whipping wind and stinging soil particles. They had expected wind. They had expected rain. They had expected blazing sunshine. Somehow no-one had put two and two together and realised that with little surviving plant life to hold Western Isle’s soil together, every time the sun dried out the topsoil and then the wind got up, there would be a dust storm. 

Clionie had already given permission for the beleaguered dragonriders of the newly founded Providence Weyr to jump between to the equally new Chardro Hold in the western reaches of the Southern Continent, until the latest storm had blown itself out. They had only been here a month and still did not have enough accommodation constructed to keep all the weyrfolk and dragons sheltered from the stinging grit. During such storms – or during the downpours that turned the dust to a sea of mud – priority for shelter was given to weyrlings too young to go between, lower caverns folk plus the crafters and holders who were doing the bulk of the construction work.

As Weyrwoman, Clionie herself felt that she had to set an example and also stay put. Her gold Ordovith grumbled no end at this, but was reminded that Brinna’s gold Insurth had no such option to leave, because she had a clutch on the sands. If a junior gold could put up with wind and dust, then surely Ordovith, as senior queen, would be able to tolerate it too? The appeal to the queen’s ego usually toned the grumbling down a notch or two, even if it did not entirely abate. 

Those who fled didn’t get off scot free, of course. They were allowed to jump to Chardro Hold on condition that they hauled back supplies on their return trip: food, timber, clay. 

That in itself had caused no end of friction amongst the disparate group of dragonriders that made up Providence Weyr. They had – mostly – been quite willing to transport supplies and passengers from the old Weyrs and from Ruatha to the various sites which would be the new Weyr and new Holds. But a substantial number of them had somehow believed those trips would be the end of it all: that they could then just sit back and expect the support staff and holders to build a Weyr around them. Clionie had swiftly disabused them of that notion. 

She pointed out it may very well be beneath the dignity of a dragon to act as a draft beast, but the Thread-scoured Western Isle could not support a Weyr until it had been re-planted. All it had for them at the moment was stone, hot springs and whatever food could be gleaned from the seashore. The Southern Continent, on the other hand, had a profusion of timber, wild foods and the like. Three of the Seacraft’s ships were still in transit to Southern, and the fourth – the _Moonshadow_ – was being used as temporary housing until Providence Hold was complete, so the necessary supplies could not be ferried to the Weyr by ship as yet. Even when those ships arrived at Southern, at least two were likely to be pressed into service as fishing vessels, to provide another source of fresh protein for the people hewing timber, quarrying stone and digging for clay. 

So unless the dragonriders wanted to live outdoors in the whirling dust, or huddle for months under temporary shelters erected from the sails of the _Moonshadow_, then they would just have to bloody well grit their teeth and pitch in to help. Things would, she assured them, eventually settle back to normal.

It would help if she had a Weyrleader to act as partner in enforcing discipline amongst the male riders. But Ordovith would not rise for months yet, and there was the prickly issue of bronzerider egos to deal with. Had all the bronzeriders originated from one Weyr, then the matter of selecting an acting Weyrleader would have at least been simpler, if not _entirely_ straightforward. But with them coming from five different Weyrs, things got ever so much more complicated! S’newar of High Reaches, for example, seemed entirely willing to defer to the age and experience of R’kent of High Reaches. But add S’kelb of Igen or K’myr of Ista into the mix and S’newar’s hackles would immediately rise. They all needed time to get to know each other, and to get over the fact they originally hailed from High Reaches, Ista or wherever. They were all Providence Weyr riders now!

Fortunately, there was considerably less ego involved with the goldriders. Brinna had settled admirably into the role of Weyrwoman Second. Kella and Signatha were so young that the pair of them still regarded the whole affair as a great adventure. Kella’s Yorkath would be old enough to go _between_ soon, and to her the idea of bringing back a load of roof slates from the Southern Continent seemed exotic and exciting, rather than a burdensome chore. 

The youth of two of her goldriders reflected the strange age structure of the Weyr as a whole. There were a substantial number of older riders like herself, who had fought Thread for decades and did not want to face fighting it for decades more in the Ninth Pass. They had a lesser number of riders in their twenties and thirties, and the numbers went up somewhat when you considered those in their forties. Then, of course, they were positively awash with werylings. All the dragonets who were too large to easily carry and too small to go _between_ under their own power had been transported to Providence Weyr. 

Clionie winced as she remembered the logistical nightmare _that_ had been. The fact they had all got here safe and sound, with only one transport dragon suffering a wrenched wing, she regarded as a major miracle.

So they had a plethora of young men, some excited by the whole adventure, some deeply resentful that their chance to fight Thread had been snatched away from them by not being taken to the Ninth Pass. Barca, the Weyr’s Headwoman, had drawn Clionie’s attention to the uncomfortable truth that because of all those weyrlings, their men outnumbered their women three to one. Whereas the holders had had paid more foresight to human rather than dragon needs and brought roughly equal numbers of men and women. A little fact which might lead to trouble in the future…

And they ate! Oh Faranth, but did those young dragons eat. Even with all the adult dragons heading to the Southern Continent to hunt wild prey, the weyrlings were making serious inroads into the Weyr’s herdbeasts. The Weyrherder was keeping a close eye on things so that they would have enough milch beasts and breeding stock to keep going. Clione and Barca would be very relieved when the holds had built their own herds up enough to begin to tithe. 

Clionie opened the door that led to the Main Hall and swiftly closed it behind her to minimise the amount of dust that gusted in. They had planned a large double door for the Hall, but when the first dust storm had hit, it had been boarded up and a smaller door inset within the larger frame. Once inside, there was a curtain to push past, again to minimise the dust. She pulled the scarf from her face and shook the grit off it, then scanned the crowded room to see which table the Weyrsmiths had claimed this morning.

Ah there, they were, just beyond where the Weyrharper was teaching the children the new Way Forward Song, which listed all the Weyrleaders and Weyrwomen who had gone forward with Lessa. Clionie smiled to hear Bedella listed as Telgar Weyrwoman, which had been her own position until a scant month ago. Weyrharper Petaurin had shown her the as yet unsung final verse, which was waiting for the name of Providence’s first Weyrleader to be added to her own. The lyrics were all very stirring and noble – nary a mention of dust in your hair and lack of proper bathing facilities. 

The Main Hall was rough unhewn stone to the rear, and dressed stone blocks to the front. The smiths had taken a natural indentation in the cliff face of the rim, and put a roof over it, then extended it out from the cliff by building onto it. Simultaneously they had teams of people tunnelling their way into the rock here and in several other spots. But the volcanic rock was tough and hewing out sufficient tunnels and rooms for a whole Weyr would take generations. Instead they had opted for the compromise as demonstrated by both the Main Hall and the Hatching Grounds – to simultaneously tunnel in and build out. Their new Weyr would look, when finished, more like Fort Hold than like a traditional Weyr. Yet another break from Tradition which set people to grumbling. 

As was the spread of wooden beams overhead. Clionie couldn’t help glancing up at the ceiling high above her. It seemed indecent – not to mention dangerous – to construct a roof of wood. Even if that wood was being carefully covered over with slates and tiles to make sure no Thread could eat its way within. The shutters and the door were also of wood – a temporary solution until the Holds had the wherewithal to manufacture metal equivalents. Despite the fact that Clionie _knew_ there would be no more Thread for four hundred Turns seeing such things felt _wrong. _

“Ah, Weyrwoman Clionie. We were just discussing the plans for the hot water system.” Weyrsmith Gidyas looked up with a smile as she approached. 

The Weyrsmiths from all five Weyrs had decided to join the Providence Weyr venture: the challenge of building a Weyr or a Hold from scratch having a far greater appeal than the prospect of doing repairs on a Weyr neglected for four hundred Turns. Gidyas had been named senior, and the others had taken to calling him Western Mastersmith Gidyas. Such things were apparently much more codified and easy to work out for crafters than for bronzeriders. Perhaps she ought to call on him to give her bronzeriders some lessons?

“That would be most welcome, Master Gidyas,” she said. “Carrying buckets to and from the hot springs is getting rather irksome.” 

So far, the only portions of the Weyr with hot water on demand were the kitchens and the goldrider’s quarters they had constructed on the edge of the Hatching Grounds. The latter had been the first major construction of the Weyr, with the smiths rushing to lay pipework and bury it in a sufficient depth of sand to spread the weight of the gold dragons who would lay there. The smiths had still been hauling in sacks of black volcanic sand when Brinna’s Insurth had begun laying her first eggs. 

The smiths showed her the plans for the water system, describing which portions would rely on the natural water pressure of the hot springs and which sections would have to be pumped by hand or still have water carried up in buckets the old fashioned way. Clionie was glad to see, when built, all the goldrider and senior bronzerider weyrs would have unrestricted access to hot water. If and when they started to carve weyrs higher into the crater rim, those occupants would have to descend to shared facilities at a lower level in the cliff. 

Well, as the old saying went, rank has its privileges.

# # #

2058.10.08 

“I am so sick of preserved food!” 

Clionie could not help but agree with Weyrwoman-Second Brinna’s exclamation. She picked unenthusiastically at the latest offering from the kitchens – a stew made from dried mushrooms and smoked sausage, which managed to taste of neither. 

The pickled, dried, smoked and salted food they had brought from the stores of the Old Weyrs would last them for Turns if they were careful. But one did ache for fresh greens and for meat that didn’t feel as if it had been laid down to smoke round about the time the first dragon cracked shell. The Lower Caverns folk had no end of volunteers to ferry them south on expeditions to hunt out wild fruits and roots. 

“Just a few more months and the crops will be in,” Clionie assured her. They had to be. If some drought or crop-blight or something struck before first harvest, then this whole expedition was doomed. 

It was spring in the region of Southern where Chardro Hold was being constructed, so the holders there were frantically clearing land for crop fields and starting with the planting. Western Isle was in the northern hemisphere, at a latitude equivalent to Southern Boll, so in theory it was autumn here. However, Lord Eleuther of Providence Hold was confident that the tropical climate would permit the growth of crops year round, so he could get a harvest in before the northern spring arrived. He too had his holders planting frantically, as well as digging irrigation ditches. 

The two women were using their lunchtime to discuss what form the upcoming Hatching for Insurth’s eggs would take. Whilst the Hatching Grounds themselves had been a priority on the construction front, seating for the audience was most definitely not. The dragonfolk would have to carry their own chairs, blankets or cushions into the huge cavern-come-hall. That was all very well, but Clionie was toying with the idea of inviting the highest ranking of the Holders, Seacrafters and Harpers to the event. She couldn’t very well tell them _ “Oh, and you’ll have to bring your own chair.”_ Technically their holds were so new that Lords Eleuther and Charadriff had only been Lords for a few sevendays, but Lords they were. There was decorum and dignity to consider.

Brinna chewed on another mouthful of the tasteless stew and looked at the list of potential guests which Clionie had jotted down on a wax tablet. “It’s yet another break with Tradition,” she said warningly. “Only weyrfolk attend hatchings. There will be complaints.”

“Don’t I know it,” Clionie said wearily. Poor old Tradition had once been as mighty and noble as a dragon. Since the founding of Providence Weyr it had become as bent and battered as an arthritic watchwher left out in a hailstorm. She longed for the days when they would be back on an even keel instead of this ‘making it up as you go along’ mode. “But the hatching will be a boost of spirits for everyone. An excuse to get your gather best out of the clothes press. I’m sure the holders and crafters need that sort of morale lift as much as our weyrfolk do. They are here to assure the future of Pern. Let them see the first part of that future hatch out. ”

“How will you justify it to the Tradition-is-sacrosanct crowd?” asked Brinna.

“Get Ordovith to tell them to take a long jump _between?_” suggested Clionie with a weary sigh. But then she shrugged. “Actually, I was thinking of telling anyone who objected that they were welcome to act as watchriders down south for the day.”

Brinna laughed. “If you don’t agree, you don’t have to come and see Tradition being broken?”

“Exactly.”

“Will there be a feast?” Brinna eyed the stew malevolently. 

Clionie couldn’t help but smile. “There will be the finest feast Pern has ever seen. Even if I have to slaughter the wherries and pick the greens myself.”

“Then be sure to tell them. If decent food doesn’t have them all stampeding to break Tradition, then nothing will.”

# # #

The kitchens had a new task – seed duty. Pips and seeds were diligently removed from any plant before cooking or serving, and put aside. Not for throwing onto the middens with the scraps, but for handing on to the exploratory teams or to whichever weyrling class that was practising _betweening_ coordinates. When the dragonriders had made their jump, their first duty was to set down, poke holes in whatever soil existed at their location and plant the seeds. Any plants that sprang up and survived would have a double benefit: first to bind the soil in place, and secondly, when mature they would be edible. No-one was going to tend these scattered pockets of crops – they would just have to fend for themselves. But with few weed species to compete with them and a dearth of crawlers to consume them, it was hoped that they would spread.

Older riders that Clionie trusted did a variant of the seed duty, nicknamed the grass runs. They took a few holder volunteers and jumped back _between_ times to when it was high summer on the plains of Keroon. Near the Red Butte, far from the sight of any hold, they gathered wild grass seeds by the basketful. A jump forward again and those seeds were scattered where it was hoped they would flourish. First within the huge crater of Providence itself, and then on subsequent expeditions wider and wider afield. Since the only wherries currently inhabiting Western Isle were the fish-eating rather than the seed-eating kinds, the grass seeds should be safe from hungry mouths. 

It was R’kent that suggested to the holders that instead of him setting them down to cast the seed, they could scatter it from the air. Centarth’s first low skim close to the ground scared his passenger witless, but once an optimum speed and height had been worked out, the holders and dragonriders became an efficient team. Down-stroke, cast seed. Up-stroke, reach for the next handful. 

Returning to the same sites a few sevendays later and seeing a scattering of green shoots across what had once been bare soil bought a lift of spirits that Clionie would never before have ascribed to something as humble as grass.

# # #

2058.10.24

The hatching and accompanying feast had gone without a hitch. Benches from the Main Hall had been hauled across to provide adequate seating on the sands, and those earmarked for the Lords, Ladies and senior crafters had been provided with cushions. Arranging for a cupful of wine or two from their dwindling stocks to be served to the ranking guests on the sands gave adequate time for the teams of weyrlings co-opted for the purpose to cart the benches back to where they belonged before said guests needed to use them again. 

Clionie’s theory the holders would be delighted to have an excuse to parade their finery did not prove wrong. Lord Eleuther and his wife came in matching purple outfits, and Eleuther confessed he was thinking of incorporating the colour into his hold heraldry if and when he had time to think of a design for it. Lord Charadriff’s tunic was so thick with brocade trim and embroidered designs it was a wonder he didn’t melt in the heat. His wife had opted for a far more sensible gown in a light flowing fabric, and had obviously instructed her three daughters likewise. Clionie had lost count of the number of people who had told her how uplifting it was to have an excuse to abandon work clothes even if only for a day. And, of course, there were endless questions from people who only knew the bare bones of what happened at a hatching from listening to teaching ballads and hearsay. 

The crafters too seemed happy. The harpers were delighted to indulge themselves in playing and singing for a large crowd. The seacrafters and smiths were mingling and drinking, with a willing audience for expounding their more long term plans for building projects and explorations. Day to day grumbles about dust storms, partially constructed buildings, and hand-to-mouth existence seemed momentarily forgotten.

Clionie smiled as she sipped at one of their scarce skins of Benden wine – specially opened for the occasion. The whole expedition hadn’t felt this unified and this alive since their initial arrival. Next hatching she would definitely be repeating her invitations to those outside the Weyr. 

And Tradition be damned!


End file.
